Where the Sidewalk Ends
by sunne
Summary: "You don't love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car, but because they sing a song only you can hear." - Oscar Wilde, written for Round 7 of the QLFC


**Author's Note:** This is written for round 7 of the QLFC. I am the Seeker for the Falmouth Falcons. My prompt is: H.M.S Overworked & Under-appreciated (Blaise and Hermione)

Where the Sidewalk Ends

"It takes a great deal of courage to see the world in all its tainted glory, and still to love it." -Oscar Wilde

When Hermione entered the Muggle cafe, it wasn't particularly crowded. Heaving her bag more firmly onto her shoulder, she chose a window seat. There was something calm and peaceful about this particular cafe, and she visited it frequently when she needed somewhere quiet to work. Pulling out a stack of notebooks—despite being a witch, she'd never fully given up her Muggle roots, and she found the idea of piled research to be quite pleasing—she settled down and got to work.

By the time Hermione had gone through half of what she had planned on doing that day, the tiny cafe had filled, the scent of tea drifting between the clusters of people. Conversations surrounded her, a backdrop of noise to go with her work. She closed her eyes, almost able to transport herself back to her Hogwarts years and all the evenings she'd spent in the Gryffindor Common Room. Hermione couldn't decide why a Muggle cafe bore such a strong resemblance to her old common room—she supposed it was the warm, welcoming atmosphere—but she sought it out almost desperately. Pushing a chunk of hair out of her face, she looked up from her work and glanced to the table beside her.

A young man, around her own age, sat with his long legs crossed in a pose that screamed refined elegance. He leaned back in the chair with all the ease and confidence of someone comfortable in their own skin. In his hands, he held a book. Curious, Hermione leaned to the side slightly, tilting her head to read the title. He glanced up before she could read the words printed across the front of the book. Hermione quickly returned to her own work, not wanting to impose.

She worked through barely three lines of research before her eyes again drifted to her right. The young man shifted in his seat and cleared his throat but kept his attention on his book. As Hermione watched him, a sense of familiarity nagged at her. He could be an old classmate from primary school, she thought. It wouldn't be the first time she'd run into someone she had known before she'd gone to Hogwarts. She was in a Muggle cafe, after all.

"Granger, are you going to keep staring at me?"

Hermione jumped, sending a notebook flying to the ground. A pair of amused brown eyes slid from the book to Hermione as he knelt to pick it up.

"Blaise Zabini," she said, staring at him as if he were an out-of-place piece of artwork.

He sat down across from her. "The one and only." He set his book down to thumb through her notebook.

She held out her hand. "That's mine."

"Yes, I know."

Hermione reached forward, but Blaise pulled the notebook away. "I would appreciate it if you returned my research," she said.

Blaise nodded his head at her work. "House-elves, Granger?" He looked up at her, disbelief crinkling his forehead. "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Didn't you start some club in Hogwarts about house-elves? Spud, or something?" He flipped a few more pages.

Her eyes watched his long-fingered hands turning the pages, and irritation crept up her spine. "It was S.P.E.W., and _please_ give that back to me."

"Spew, that's right."

"It's not spew. It's S.P.E.W."

He smiled. "Of course."

Leaning back in her chair, Hermione folded her arms. She glanced at his book he'd set on the edge of the table and reached forward to grab it.

"Oscar Wilde." She flipped through the book of poetry and frowned—half in confusion and half in amusement—at Blaise. "Really?"

"Yes." Blaise continued to flick through her pages of research.

"Why?"

He closed her notebook and set it on the table. "What do you mean, why?"

"He's a Muggle poet," she said as if that should explain the obvious.

"Wrong." Amusement crept into his features. He was enjoying their conversation, enjoying the opportunity to prove her wrong. "He was a wizard."

"Him too?" A good number of authors, poets, and artists Hermione had thought were Muggle she'd learned were magical. "He's written up in every book on Muggle literature."

"Wilde enjoyed masquerading as a Muggle. The man was born a wizard and died a wizard." Blaise leaned forward slightly. "Did you know he faked his own death?"

"He did not." Disbelief colored her voice.

Crossing one foot onto his opposite knee, Blaise nodded at her. "He became a little too obsessed with Muggles and began asking questions. After being imprisoned for some debacle involving the Marquess of Queensberry and some bloke, the Ministry had to step in. One thing led to another—" he waved his hand back and forth, "and he was faking his own death to avoid breaking the Statute of Secrecy."

Hermione covered her mouth as laughter escaped her mouth in the form of a snort. Across from her, Blaise watched, amused.

oOo

"So, why house-elves?"

Hermione looked up from her scribbled notes. She had returned to the Muggle cafe on a weekly basis since her conversation with Blaise. Not willing to admit she enjoyed his company, she stubbornly held onto her internal argument that it was because the cafe reminded her of the common room.

Blaise had slid into the chair across from her, mug of tea in hand. Hermione noted the distinct scent of earl grey and thought it appropriate for him.

"It's not just house-elves," she said, flipping through her notes. "It's elves and werewolves and goblins and centaurs. Did you know, while they all have magic, none of them have the same rights to it that we do?"

"The anti-werewolf legislation was repealed three years ago," Blaise said, sifting through a pile of documents discarded by the window.

"Yes, but do they really have the same rights as the rest of us?" She shuffled through the last few pages of research.

He pulled a copied parchment out of the stack. "Do Muggle-borns?"

Hermione's hands froze among the pages, and her jaw tightened. She kept her eyes on the table, unable to look at the man across from her.

Blaise set the parchment down and reached out towards Hermione, placing his hand beside hers, careful to not touch. "That was callous of me."

"Muggle-borns have just as much worth as pure-bloods. There is nothing wrong with me or my magic. I have as much right to it as you do to yours." She curled her fingers and pulled her hand away from where his rested on the table.

"I wasn't implying that you were inferior." His tone was soft, and he reached across the table.

Hermione laughed bitterly, leaning away. "You could have fooled me."

"I did not mean to offend. I have never thought Muggle-borns inferior."

Anger simmered in her eyes. "I find that hard to believe."

"I don't know if you noticed, but my family never aligned their loyalties during the war. My actions when we were in school were purely self-preservation, Granger." He looked her straight in the eye, and she wanted to look away, but the expression on his face told her he deserved her attention and regard. "I always thought highly of you."

She shook her head, unwilling to believe what seemed to be impossible.

"It wasn't just your intelligence or the lengths you were willing to go to for your friends that I admired." He rested his forearms on the table as he leaned forward. "It was the fierceness you had in proving yourself worthy. You spent years determined to change how the wizarding world viewed Muggle-borns, and you succeeded."

Disgust and anger had Hermione scoffing. "I spent a year on the run, fighting a war against people who thought so little of people like me that they would kill them without a second thought."

"But you won the war," Blaise said. "The Muggle-born Registry has been dismantled, and work has been done to change the anti-Muggle-born mindset. If I recall correctly, most of those efforts have your name associated with it."

"It's not enough," she said.

"Change takes time. The bigger the change, the more time it takes to get the tides to turn. You are making headway with Muggle-borns, and I'm sure werewolves and other creatures will soon follow."

She reached out for her tea. It had grown cold, and she cast a wandless heating charm on it, steam billowing from the liquid. "You're the first person to really see my efforts for what they are and not just dismiss them as a phase."

"Phases come and go. Societal change, while it takes time, has staying power." Blaise smiled at her and leaned back in his chair, holding his cup of tea to his mouth.

oOo

"What is your favorite poem?" Hermione asked.

Blaise sat across from her, his fingers resting lightly on the table. They were the long fingers of a piano player, and Hermione wondered if he had ever played. Paper was scattered across the table between them along with a few empty mugs, remnants of tea leaves on the bottom. They had fallen into a routine, meeting with each other every week. It felt forbidden, but Hermione craved the intellectual stimulation.

He picked up one of the mugs and looked at the leaves. "Must I choose just one?" His eyes flicked up to hers.

"Yes, you must."

"Well, my official answer is an Oscar Wilde poem titled, _Requiescat_." Blaise set the mug down.

Hermione smiled. "Requiescat—the wish one has for the resurrection of a dead loved one. He wrote it about his dead sister."

"He did. It is a hauntingly beautiful poem." Blaise kept his eyes trained on her, a soft smile forming on his lips. "I enjoy beauty."

She met his gaze for a brief moment. There was an intensity about the way he looked at her, and it both unsettled and intrigued her. She shifted in her seat and pushed her hair out of her eyes. "If that is your official answer, what is your unofficial answer?" she asked.

His eyebrows arched delicately. "That would be far too embarrassing to admit."

"Well, now you have to tell me."

"Do I?" Blaise shifted in his seat.

"Yes, you do."

Blaise made a dramatic display of sighing. "You are not to laugh."

"Of course not."

"Fine," he said, smoothing out the fabric of his sweater. "Let's just say, I went through a Sylvia Plath phase during my fifth year."

Covering her mouth with her hand, Hermione muffled a snort. "Plath, really?" She bit her lip to keep from laughing. After all, she had promised. Clearing her throat, she lowered her hand.

Unamused, he inclined his head her way. "Your turn to answer."

"But you haven't told me your favorite Plath poem."

"Is my embarrassment not enough, Granger?"

"Fine," she said, biting her lip, "but it's silly."

Blaise leaned in towards her. "Then I must insist that you tell me."

Sighing, she pushed the same chunk of hair that often fell from her bun out of the way. " _Where the Sidewalk Ends_ , by Shel Silverstein."

"I'm not familiar with her."

" _Him_ ," she said. "He's an American poet who writes for children. The poem is about finding and not losing the joy in life that children find so easy. I first read it in primary school and thought the words were pretty." She took a deep breath and forced her gaze upwards to look him in the eye. "During the war, I kept a copy of the poem with me. It was a reminder that, despite the ugliness of war forcing us into adulthood, there was still beauty and joy to be had."

Blaise reached forward and took her hand. Hermione's breath hitched in her throat, and she stared at his dark skin against hers. He ran his thumb lightly against the back of her hand, the touch creating shivers deep within her. It was not the touch of a sympathetic friend; it was the touch of something more.

Hermione pulled her hand away, the fingers of her right hand immediately going to her wedding band. "I'm married," she said, " _happily_ married."

"Of course." He withdrew his hands, eyes averted, and rested them in his lap. "My apologies."

She fidgeted with her ring, her eyes jumping from person to person in the cafe, looking anywhere but at the man across from her. Her heart pounded and her fingers still tingled from his touch. Hastily, she stood, gathering her things.

"Granger—"

"I'm sorry," she said, "but this was a mistake."

She cast him one last, lingering look before making her quick exit.

oOo

Hermione held a scrap of parchment in her hand, the owl that delivered it having just flown out the window.

We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,

And watch where the chalk-white arrows go

To the place where the sidewalk ends.

-Shel Silverstein

She ran her thumb over the neat, slanted handwriting and read the words again before folding it and tucking it into one of her books with all the others. A soft smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, her mind lost in memory.

The notes would continue for years—one every week, like clockwork—until their inevitable end. Hermione would tell herself that the absence of his notes was inconsequential, but the sadness would speak otherwise.


End file.
